Storytime

Hrafrin looked out across the field. Ruined walls dotted the plain before him. “Frail umgi craftsmanship surely,” he grumbled. “No dawi building would fall down that easily, aye, Dorgi?” He looked to his brother at his right.
The sturdy Runelord nodded, stroking his beard. “Aye. Still, we'll yet put a stop to anymore urki destruction here. Look, they've even come to meet us!” He pointed, and Hrafrin saw from around a plateau of skulls the enemy approaching. Orruks, troggoths, and even a few ogors, led by a huge armoured orruk. Looking over his own forces in turn, he smiled. Though small, the force of Kalan Izorstokaz that had chosen to follow him was respectable. A small group of his clansmen, his brother Dorgurim the runelord, and his teacher, Skallgrim Galrhun.
As he watched, the two Runelords worked in concert, their prayers setting the warriors' shield-runes to glowing. There were the Gorlmawi, the green-gold longbeards of his hold. The Grimundi, Unyielding Watchers, clad in sturdy gromril plate. And there, a little apart from the rest, the Azuldrengi—the Metal Slayer. Almost a myth, the undying legend had simply appeared when the time had come for Hrafrin to set out, and none had questioned him.
“Alright, dawi!” Hrafrin bellowed. “Let's give these urki a good runk! Stoki a izor, khirti a grimazul!” It was the battlecry of their clan, Copperfist. 'Fists of copper, hearts of steel'. His clansdwarfs struck their axes to their shields, raising a thunderous din.
“Stoki a izor, khirti a grimazul!” Horn and drum sounded the advance, and the duardin marched inexorably forward. Across from them, the greenskins and ogors came towards them eagerly. Their leader roared a savage warcry, and the orruks howled as well, surging forward. To his left, the duardin King saw the ogor's sorcerer cresting the ridge of the plateau overseeing the field.
“That one'll bring trouble, no doubt,” he muttered, and Skallgrim nodded.
“I'll handle that whelp,” the elder replied. “Dorgurim, you keep the runes hot on the flank.”
“Karinunkarak, brother.” Dorgurim and Hrafrin clasped each other by the forearm.
“Karinunkarak.” With that, the runelords were gone from his side, and Hrafrin continued forward, dead center of the line. Right where a King should be, he thought. “Dawi! Thrund!” he cried, and almost as one they halted, and shields slammed into place in an unbreakable wall. Here, they would hold their line. The duardin scowled as he saw the trio of vile troggoths growing closer, spittle flying from their mouths between rotting teeth. Disgust and an ancestral hate vied for their place on his face.
“A grudge on those filthy beasts,” he growled. “A fine heap of oathgold to whoever brings one of those thagging trolls down!” he called. An enthusiastic chorus answered him. One voice louder than the rest, and Hrafrin turned to see with astonishment the crazed Slayer charging forward alone.
“He's gone zakzuli,” muttered one of the longbeards to his left.
“Dreng tromm,” Hrafrin whispered. “If that doesn't fulfill his oath, nothing will.” They watched as the battered metal duardin leaped into the midst of the ogors, axes flashing in a whirlwind of death. They struck home, biting deep into one of the beasts, but with a howl of rage the angry ogor gave as good as it got. All three lashed out, and the last thing the Warden King saw was the creatures dragging the Slayer to the ground as they beat him in unison with their spiked iron fists.
“Gazul bar baraz; Gazul gand baraz,” one of the duardin intoned. Hrafrin was forced to tear his gaze from the violent spectacle however, as the sky darkened and the earth began to shake. Turning, he saw the ogor on the cliff gesturing wildly. The hairs of his beard stood up, the air charged with energy.
“Grimnir's balls,” he swore. Casting his eyes about, he spied the gold-clad runelord amongst the Gorlmawi. “Skallgrim!” he called. The runelord didn't react. “Skallgrim!” he shouted louder. The runelord turned, and Hrafrin pointed to the mage. “Shut the thagging spellcrafter up!” The runelord nodded, and began to chant solemnly. With a triumphant cry from the ogor, he pointed to the longbeards' shieldwall, and the ground began to open up into an angry mouth.
Then, at a word from the runelord, it snapped shut again, and the mage screamed angrily. Hrafrin allowed himself a grim smile. It faded however, as the troggoths closed, and spewed acidic bile onto the Gorlmawi. Even the stoutest duardin shields could only deflect so much, and here and there he saw an elder fall, their armour dissolving in the vile spray.
“A grudge for each and every one of them that falls,” he snarled. The ground shook for a second time, but before the spell could even begin to take hold, Skallgrim struck it down contemptuously.
“The bastards just don't give up, do they?” he grumbled, and Hrafrin had to agree. He raised his shield as another burst of vomit streamed into the longbeards. Then the leader was in front of him, and Hrafrin had no attention for aught else.
The gigantic orruk's iron-shod fist punched through even the thickest armour, skewering a longbeard. With a guttural roar he flung the duardin's corpse, and the duardin let out a collective cry as the battle-standard fell to the ground. The Gorlmawi cursed in rage and tried to return the attack, but their blows merely glanced from the thick armour plating as the beast laughed horribly and swung his heavy axe, another score of duardin falling to his assault.
Seething with fury, Hrafrin mentally recorded another grudge on the urki's filthy warboss, and stepping over the fallen flag of the Gorlmawi, he hurled himself into the fray. His rune-axe bit deep into the orruk's hide, and he snarled in satisfaction at the black blood now covering its blade.

On the right flank, the battle raged. Orruks charged heedlessly into the shields of the duardin, and the line held. For each that fell, another stepped forward to fill the gap, and the mountain folk struck back with vengeful axes. Several of the greenskins managed to pull an ironbreaker from the safety of the shieldwall, stabbing into the cracks of his armour until he lay still. Their comrades cursed and swung with redoubled vigour. Orruks fell in equal numbers, and the dead began to pile up. Some of the more cowardly orruks turned and fled rather than face the certainty of death from duardin steel. Dorgurim couldn't feel satisfaction for long, however, as the ogors charged not at his warriors, but directly at him. Massive fists lashed out, and he barely turned them aside with his forgehammer. As he parried, another's blade caught him across the ribs. His armour held, but he felt bone crack and grunted.
“I'll crush your thagging skull for that, ograz,” he spat, blood accompanying the words. But he was hard pressed indeed against multiple assailants. He spun, and his runestaff struck the injured ogor, it's runes flaring brightly to life and the creature howled in pain. One of the clansdwarfs struck it from behind, and the ogor fell, other duardin axes leaping thirstily for its throat. A cry from the left caught the runelord's attention, and he spared a glance.
The troggoths had flanked the duardin line, and as he looked, one of the foul beasts crushed Skallgrim's body between its fingers stupidly. Dorgurim cried out as his teacher's body fell to the ground.
“Skallgrim! Nai!” The revered rhunrikaz lay crumpled in the earth, his armour mangled and torn. Dread filled Dorgurim and he sought desperately for his brother on the field. He saw him then, toe to toe with the orruk warboss. As he watched, the thick axe blade skipped off the Warden King's ancestor shield, and bit into the duardin's helm. For a moment, Dorgurim's heart felt like it skipped a beat.
“I'll not lose you too, zandawraz,” he whispered, and he reached out to the runes once more...

Hrafrin grunted as he felt the orruk's weapon strike his helm, and his head rang. Shaking himself, he lashed out, but his axe could only manage small, glancing blows against the warboss' armour plates.
“Ye call that a swing?” he heard one of the elders grumble. “In my day,” the duardin muttered between axe strokes, “urki were at least twice that size, and we did well enough!” Shamed, he set himself to redouble his attacks, and then he saw the runes in his axe begin to glow, and he felt a surge of strength filling his limbs.
“Dorgurim,” he said with a grin. “Come on then! Let's see how you like the taste of grungzharr, urkaz! Dammaz a Gorlmawi!” He flung himself at the orruk, and the surprise on the warboss' face as the rhun-az cut through his armour like paper was all the satisfaction Hrafrin needed. The orruk staggered under the blow, and Hrafrin thought for sure victory was close. Pressing forward, he didn't see the monster's backswing until it was too late.
The blade bit deep into his side, driven by the orruk's bestial strength. Hrafrin gasped in pain, and his head spun as blood began to pour from the wound. The longbeards leapt between them, but the orruk turned their weapons aside easily, and he stared the Warden King down, scenting blood. Hrafrin staggered and struggled to catch his breath.
Suddenly, the warboss paused.
“Now dis a proppa fight!” he rumbled. “It'd be a shame ta end it dis soon. I ain't had dis much fun in a long time!” He threw back his head and began to laugh uproariously. Swatting aside another longbeard, the orruk turned. “We'z gonna come back an' stomp ya'z again real soon, stunty gitz. Don't yoo fink we won't.”
As the enemies turned and slunk away, the duardin were torn between pursuing the enemy and tending to their own. Eventually kin won out over bloodlust. Hrafrin couldn't help but feel that this wasn't a victory exactly. Many of the urki were slain, but so too did scores of duardin litter the field. Hrafrin himself was badly hurt, both Runelords lay gravely injured, and many elders dead; age and wisdom that could not be so easily replaced.